


Wine

by Kahvi



Category: Red Dwarf RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:32:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Craig does well on his own. Most times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I threw together as a treat. I can't resist this pairing, but I can't write Chris, so this is the best I could do.
> 
> Written for madlovescience

 

 

Wine.

Craig was drinking wine, his ears bleeding from the shite sound system, drowning whatever talent the hapless karaoke singers might have had. They seemed to travel in packs, every one of them eying the newcomers and daring them to sing their regular numbers, so they could take them out back and show them who was king of the mic. It was half nine on a Friday night, and he was in some run down local, drinking wine and listening to people not-quite enjoying themselves. Ain't life grand?

He couldn't remember when he'd started drinking again. Maybe just about when he'd realized that the drinking wasn't the problem; it was the lack of stopping that was. And the lack of stopping only came about when there was no control, and he was in control now. Perfectly. And there was this to be said about enforced near-sobriety; after just a glass of claret, he was feeling it. Just one glass. Probably just psychological, but he was half way into his second now, and it was feeling like his twenty third. The world was starting to take on that familiar blurred feeling, and in a minute, he'd start thinking he should have another, and another, and maybe another, which is why it was time to leave, now.

The thing about being a self-confessed alcoholic is, you can't go drinking with your mates. Or if you can, they're entirely the wrong sort of mates. Craig pulled his coat and scarf on, steadily looking back as the pub singers sized him up. Middle aged man. Drinking on his own. He'd gotten up on stage here, once. Not a single person had applauded.

The thing about wives was, they seemed to have some sort of sixth sense. He wasn't even back at the hotel before the text buzzed into his phone. He was glad - he'd contemplated calling her, but knew she'd be able to tell the alcohol in his voice. He watched the glowing screen, and smiled.

He loved her. He really. did.

"Call him," it said.

 


End file.
